Finally we are entering the M rating
The day had finally arrived. Freedom. Liberation. The end of years spent under watch, under chains, under eyes that dissected his every move. Yet when the papers were pushed across the table and the wands lifted from his body, Draco Malfoy felt none of the triumph he had once imagined.
The Aurors moved briskly around the room, their black boots thudding against the floor as they handed him parchment after parchment, scrolls of legal language so dense he could barely read past the first line. They spoke in clipped tones, rattling off statutes, rights, restrictions lifted and new conditions placed upon him. He barely listened. His quill scratched his name across page after page, his hand moving mechanically, while his mind was elsewhere.
His gaze kept drifting toward the corner of the room where she stood. Hermione Granger. Arms crossed, expression unreadable, her face a mask of infuriating calm. She did not smile when the chains were unbound, did not nod in acknowledgment when the Aurors declared him free, did not even glance in his direction long enough to offer him the dignity of a reaction. She stood there like a judge, silent and cool, and her indifference stung sharper than any insult, deeper than any years lost in confinement.
When the last parchment was signed and stacked, the Aurors gathered their files. They swept out as quickly as they had come, their clipped footsteps fading into the corridor, the sound of the door slamming shut echoing like a final gavel.
Silence fell.
It was just the two of them now.
Draco lingered for a moment, staring at the empty doorway, his shoulders tense as though expecting someone else to burst in and declare it a mistake. When the silence stretched unbroken, he finally turned, his movements stiff, his pulse hammering too fast. He crossed to the fridge and pulled out the cake he had made the night before, the one he had stayed up until dawn perfecting, each detail chosen with a care that embarrassed him now. He had imagined this moment differently. A celebration. Her at his side. A new beginning. Instead, the air between them was thick and unyielding, pressing down on him until he could hardly breathe.
He set the cake on the table. His hands were careful, almost reverent, as he arranged the candles and lit them with a flick of his wand. The flames flickered to life, small and uncertain, their golden glow casting light across her face as she finally turned her eyes toward him.
"Go on," she said. Her tone was casual, detached, as though this were nothing more than a meaningless formality.
He bent forward and blew out the candles. The flames vanished in a soft hiss, leaving behind a faint trail of smoke curling upward, a ghost of light dissolving into the quiet.
"Did you make a wish?" she asked. Her voice carried that lilt of sarcasm she used whenever she wanted to keep her true thoughts hidden.
He lifted his gaze to hers. His eyes burned with intensity, and though his voice was soft, it carried the weight of something that had haunted him for years. "You already know what I wished for."
Her lips twitched, betraying the ghost of a smile she did not allow to fully form. "Have you built your bunker where you plan to hide me? Or should I give you a little more time?"
The corner of his mouth curved upward, slow and deliberate. He stepped closer, his movements smooth, his gaze never wavering from her face. "Do not worry your pretty head about that."
Her expression remained level, but something flickered in her eyes. Amusement, perhaps. Or curiosity. Maybe both. She leaned against the table, her arms uncrossing, her head tilting ever so slightly as if she were finally willing to acknowledge the truth in his words.
"You are serious, aren't you?" she asked quietly. Her voice was lower now, lacking the playful sarcasm of before, her gaze piercing and unwavering.
"Completely."
Her breath caught, a sound so faint he almost missed it. She masked it quickly, letting out a scoff, her lips twisting in a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. "Merlin, Malfoy, you are a lunatic."
His smirk deepened, his certainty radiating like heat. "And you love it."
Her eyes narrowed, her silence stretching long enough to cut through the air like a blade. She could have denied it, could have laughed in his face, could have walked away. She did none of those things. She stood her ground, her gaze steady, and that was answer enough.
He stepped even closer, so near that the air between them seemed to shiver with the weight of it. His voice was low, steady, but there was a desperation woven through it that he could no longer hide. "You are not going to leave me, Hermione. Not now, not ever. If you try, I will find you. You know I will."
For a heartbeat her mask faltered, the calm and collected facade slipping just enough for him to glimpse the uncertainty beneath. Her brows drew together ever so slightly, her lips parted, and he felt a rush of savage triumph at seeing her finally unsettled. But she caught herself quickly, pulling the walls back into place, her tone sharp even as the edge of conviction wavered. "You are delusional if you think you can keep me."
He leaned in closer, so close that his breath ghosted over the curve of her jaw, the scent of her skin maddening him. His words came out soft but fierce, the kind of whisper that burned hotter than a shout. "You do not understand, do you? I do not need to keep you. You will stay because you want to."
Her eyes flicked to his lips, quick as a dart, but he caught it. That single glance was enough to shatter every defense she had so carefully constructed in front of him. A slow smirk spread across his face, his chest swelling with certainty. She was not as untouchable as she wanted him to believe. She was not as unaffected as her words tried to claim.
The air between them was tight, almost unbearable, charged with the tension of something both forbidden and inevitable. He wanted to reach for her, to force the truth out of her with his hands, his mouth, his body, anything that would make her stop pretending.
But then she stepped back. Just one movement, small but decisive, breaking the spell. Her expression sharpened, and she snatched her bag from the chair with practiced ease, like she needed something to anchor herself. "You are insufferable," she muttered, refusing to meet his eyes as she turned and strode toward the door.
He let her go, but his voice followed her, low and certain, thick with triumph that he did not bother to hide. "See you tomorrow."
She paused with her hand on the doorknob, the smallest hesitation betraying her. Slowly, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her eyebrow arched in challenge, her lips curving into that infuriating half-smirk. "Do not count on it."
And yet, he saw it. The faintest twitch of her mouth, the ghost of a smile that slipped free before she could stop it. She vanished through the doorway, leaving him with the lingering warmth of her perfume in the air, a scent that clung like a brand.
The door closed behind her with a final click. He stood rooted to the spot, staring at it, his pulse hammering so violently he could hear it in his ears. His chest rose and fell, each breath rough, ragged, but threaded with the certainty that wrapped around him like steel. She could pretend all she wanted. She could deny, deflect, taunt, and retreat. None of it mattered.
Because he knew.
She would come back.
•••
Draco sat alone in the dimly lit living room, the shadows stretching long across the floor, the weight of the day finally pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. The Aurors were gone, the house was eerily silent, and for the first time in months he was free. Truly free. The chains were gone, the wards lifted, the crushing eyes of authority finally off his back. He should have been reveling in it, drinking in the sweetness of liberation the way a dying man drinks water.
But freedom did not taste as sweet as he thought it would.
Because he did not have her.
The thought gnawed at him, sharp as broken glass, an incessant ache that refused to leave no matter how many times he tried to push it away. He had thought freedom would mean air in his lungs, lightness in his chest, but instead it came shackled with her absence. The only thing he could think about was Hermione. Her voice. Her sharp tongue. Her maddening ability to reduce him to a trembling mess with nothing more than a glance or a single cutting remark. She lived inside his head as though she had laid claim to it long ago, and now he was left restless, empty, and starving for her.
His wand spun idly between his fingers, the polished wood glinting faintly in the candlelight. The power thrummed through him, a living pulse he had been deprived of for months. It felt both foreign and familiar, like a part of himself he had been forced to abandon and now could not stop touching, as though afraid it might vanish again. Yet the first thought that came to him, the first impulse to wield it freely, was not noble. It was not the grand declaration of independence he once imagined.
It was shameful.
A single word slipped from his lips, quiet and steady, and the air stirred. The shadows shifted, and slowly, achingly, she appeared before him. Hermione. The image was precise, every detail etched into his mind with agonizing clarity. There she was, standing in his bathroom that morning, steam curling around her like a cloak, her skin still wet from the shower. Droplets clung to her like jewels, sliding down the lines of her body until they disappeared against the soft curve of her thighs.
He swallowed hard, his chest tight as his eyes raked over the conjured figure.
Her hips, the subtle sway that came so naturally to her without effort. The glisten of water tracing down her stomach. The pale arch of her neck as she bent over the sink, reaching for the toothbrush—his toothbrush. The violation should have disgusted him. The intimacy of it should have filled him with fury. And yet, Merlin help him, the sight was unbearable in a way that only deepened his obsession.
He leaned back in the chair, his knuckles white around his wand, his breathing shallow and uneven. The image hung before him, taunting him with every imagined detail of her warmth, her scent, her impossible presence. His free hand drifted downward, the tremor in his fingers betraying the hunger he could not silence. It was pathetic, revolting, a humiliation that he could not stop himself from sinking into.
His lips parted, a ragged sound escaping as his eyes locked on hers, those conjured eyes that did not blink, did not judge, only stared back at him with the same disinterested calm she had shown him in the flesh. And somehow that made it worse.
He laughed then, low and hollow, the sound breaking in his chest. "I am a lunatic," he whispered, the words almost reverent. And still he did not look away.
he thought came unbidden, dark and intoxicating, but it wasn't enough to stop him. He knew he was sick, twisted, utterly consumed by her, and yet none of that mattered in the suffocating quiet of the house. What else did he have, if not her? What else was there to cling to but the maddening pull of this obsession?
He closed his eyes, surrendering to the vision that pulsed through him. In his mind, she wasn't just a shimmering projection of light and magic. She was flesh and blood, warm and alive, her body pressed against his, her lips parting against his mouth, her nails scraping down his back hard enough to sting. He heard her whispering his name, not with disdain or sarcasm, but with breathless urgency.
"Draco," he muttered, a broken groan tearing from his throat, his head falling back against the chair.
The illusion flickered at the edges, his spell wavering with the tremor of his desire, and panic jolted through him. His eyes snapped open, his grip tightening viciously on the wand as he reinforced the incantation. He couldn't lose her, not even the shadow of her. Not tonight. Not when he needed her this badly.
He was pathetic, wasn't he? A grown man, once the heir to one of the oldest wizarding families, now nothing but a desperate fool touching himself to a mirage of the one woman he could not possess. He knew it, and yet the shame only sharpened the hunger. Because she wasn't just anyone. She was Hermione. She was the storm that had wrecked him, the fire that had burned through everything he thought he knew. She was the only person alive who could make him feel this undone.
His fingers fumbled at his shirt, undoing each button slowly, almost ritualistically, as though drawing out the moment might make it feel more real. The fabric slipped from his shoulders, landing in a careless heap on the floor, and the cool air kissed his bare chest. It did nothing to cool the fever in his skin.
He hesitated when his hand hovered at the waistband of his trousers, his breath shallow and uneven. He should stop. He should pull himself together. But when had he ever been able to deny himself when it came to her? Never. Not once. And he knew he never would.
With a sharp breath, he pushed his trousers down, his body already thrumming with need. His hand wrapped around himself, the contact pulling a guttural sound from his throat, and he closed his eyes again, letting the illusion consume him.
She was there. She was real. He could see her standing just out of reach, her eyes heavy with imagined desire, her lips curved in that infuriating smirk. He pictured her stepping closer, her fingers curling around him, her thumb brushing over him in a way that made his hips jerk upward. The fantasy of her touch was enough to unravel him.
His movements grew steadier, more insistent, as he stroked himself, his chest rising and falling in shallow, desperate breaths. "Say it," he whispered into the empty room, his voice low and hoarse. "Say my name."
And in his head, she did. Her voice was soft, seductive, wrapping around him like silk. "Draco…"
The sound of it, even imagined, sent a violent shiver down his spine. His jaw clenched as his pace quickened, his knuckles white where his other hand gripped the armrest. The image of her climbed onto his lap in his mind, her body pressing into him, her thighs bracketing his hips, her mouth crashing against his in a kiss that stole every last shred of control he had left.
He gasped, his head falling forward, sweat clinging to his brow. Every nerve in his body burned with her name. Every part of him ached for her, real and alive, not just the cruel shadow of her that magic allowed him to conjure.
The image flickered at the edges, threatening to break apart, and a low growl tore from his throat. He gripped his wand tighter, forcing the illusion to hold, his desperation mounting with every ragged breath. He would not lose her. Not even this shadow of her. Not when his body ached for her as though she were truly there.
Her name left his lips again, hoarse and trembling, spoken like a confession, like a prayer uttered at the altar of his own undoing. His body shuddered violently, and with a strangled groan he spilled over, his release tearing through him in waves so fierce that for a fleeting instant he believed she really was there, her touch on his skin, her voice whispering against his ear.
The fantasy dissolved with cruel swiftness. The shimmering outline of her wavered once more, then faded entirely, leaving nothing but the oppressive silence of his flat. He sat there, panting, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, sweat dampening his temples as he stared into the darkness.
His hand fell limp to his side, his wand clattering to the floor. He pressed the heel of his palm to his eyes, dragging it down across his face, trying to will back some measure of composure. His hair stuck damply to his forehead, his lips parted as he drew in shallow, uneven breaths.
A monster. That was what he was, wasn't it? Twisted, broken, pathetically enthralled by something he could never have. A grown man reduced to conjuring phantoms just to quiet the hunger gnawing through him.
But as the moments bled into one another, the thought carried no sting. He let it settle in his chest like an old truth, something he had long since accepted. He was all of those things. He was everything she accused him of being. And he did not care.
Because underneath the disgust, the shame, the madness, there was only one certainty, one truth that burned hotter than all the rest.
He needed her.
Not her ghost. Not her memory. Not a fragile imitation held together by scraps of magic and desperation. He needed her flesh and blood, her body warm against his, her mouth spilling the sharp words that cut him deeper than any curse. He needed the real Hermione, with all her fury and brilliance, with all the defiance that made him ache to break her down and worship her in the same breath.
His gaze lifted to the ceiling, his jaw tight as the thought solidified inside him. This would not end with illusions. It would not end with him alone in the dark, panting over nothing but smoke.
He would have her.
And he would do whatever it took to make her his.
•••
Draco was spiraling, and he knew it.
She hadn't come back.
He had been sure she would. He had waited for hours, pacing the flat until the floorboards seemed ready to wear thin, glancing at the door every few minutes as though he could will her into existence. In his head, he played the same scene over and over, imagining her storming in with that sharp tongue of hers, ready to scold him for breathing too loudly or existing in a way that displeased her. He could almost hear her voice, her insults, the way she made even contempt sound like something he craved. But the door never opened.
And so he ended up here.
Sitting on the cold floor of his living room with a half-empty tub of ice cream and a flimsy spoon he could not remember ever purchasing. He dug into it without thought, each bite a miserable reminder that he had truly fallen apart.
Pathetic. Utterly, humiliatingly pathetic.
Even worse was the towel. The one she had used that morning, discarded so carelessly across the back of the sofa. He had snatched it up hours ago, telling himself he only meant to wash it, but instead it was balled up in his fist, pressed close as if it were some precious relic. Her scent clung to it still, faint and warm, and every time he breathed it in, something sharp and relentless stabbed through his chest.
He let out a groan, tossing the spoon into the empty tub and letting his head fall back against the sofa with a dull thud. The silence that followed was suffocating.
This was Granger. Hermione bloody Granger. The girl who never missed a chance to insult him. The girl who had spent years despising everything he stood for. And yet here he was, unraveling, clinging to the ghost of her presence like a madman. She was ruining him. Or perhaps, he thought bitterly, he was ruining himself.
He dragged a hand down his face, pressing his palm hard against his eyes as if he could smother the thoughts crawling through his skull. None of it worked. Her image lingered anyway, as stubborn and immovable as she was.
But then the idea came, creeping in like smoke under a locked door.
He had a plan. A brilliant plan.
Which, of course, meant it was completely insane.
He would find her. He would not sit here in silence, waiting for her to decide whether or not to grace him with her presence. He was not a boy anymore. He had his freedom, his wand, his will, and most of all, his obsession. And if she thought she could slip through his fingers with nothing more than a defiant look and a smirk, she was gravely mistaken.
Draco Malfoy had been patient long enough.
Tomorrow, he would track her down. And when he found her, he would make sure she understood exactly what it meant to be wanted by him.
Exactly what it meant to belong to him.
He had no intention of waiting another moment for her to come to him. The idea of sitting in his flat like a pathetic schoolboy, hoping she might show up at his door, made his skin crawl. No, he was going to track her down. He would drag her back if he had to, and once she was there, once he had her cornered with nowhere else to run, then perhaps he would finally decide what to do with her. He did not have a clear plan, but he did not need one. He had determination, obsession, and an unwillingness to let her slip out of his grasp. That was enough.
The solution was obvious to him, so obvious it hardly felt like a decision at all. He bribed a Ministry worker.
It had not even been difficult. Everyone had a price, and Malfoy had always possessed more money than most. He approached the matter with icy calm, slipping gold into greedy fingers, watching the moral hesitation dissolve in the other man's eyes the moment the pouch was heavy enough. After a short negotiation, he had everything he wanted. Every detail. Her building, her flat number, even the exact charm she had used on her door for protection. He pocketed the information like a prized weapon, feeling the rush of victory surge through him before he even moved.
He apparated to her building immediately, the world spinning around him until the stone steps and narrow corridor solidified beneath his feet. His pulse quickened as he made his way up to her flat, anticipation burning in his chest. He could almost picture her reaction already, the fire in her eyes, the sharp words on her tongue, and yet the truth he knew beneath all of it: she would not send him away. She never could.
But when he reached the door, everything unraveled.
The flat was dark. Silent. He rapped his knuckles against the door, at first in measured knocks, but when no answer came he struck harder, pounding the wood until the sound echoed down the hall like thunder. Still nothing. No flicker of light, no rustle of movement, no quickened breath from inside.
"How could she not be home?" he muttered, his voice low, almost disbelieving. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as though the door itself had betrayed him.
He waited longer than he should have, pressing his ear to the wood, straining for any sound that might tell him she was only ignoring him out of spite. But the silence remained, heavy and suffocating. With a sharp exhale, he stepped back. If she thought she could avoid him, she was mistaken.
His next move was as inevitable as it was reckless. He left the building, apparated directly to Diagon Alley, and began to scour every bar and tavern he could find. His movements were sharp, calculated, his gaze sweeping every crowded room like a predator hunting prey.
And then, he saw her.
Her hair was unmistakable, a wild mane of curls that seemed to glow even in the dim, smoky light of the pub. The sound of her laugh carried above the low hum of conversation, cutting through the noise until it sank straight into his chest. She was seated at the bar, her posture loose and casual, her lips curved into that infuriating smile that had been haunting him since the moment he first allowed himself to want her.
But it was not the laugh, nor the smile, that made the fury rise in him like fire licking at his throat. It was the way her hand was resting on another man's arm.
His vision blurred with the force of his rage. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought his teeth might crack beneath the pressure. Every muscle in his body stiffened, every nerve set alight as if his entire existence had narrowed to this one intolerable sight.
Who the fuck was that?
The stranger was leaning in, speaking to her with a familiarity that made Draco's blood boil. She was smiling at him, gazing at him as though he had done something to deserve her attention. The kind of smile she should have reserved for him and him alone. She looked radiant, and it was not for Draco, it was for another man. The thought was unbearable.
He stalked forward, his steps heavy and deliberate, his entire body radiating fury. People turned to look at him, sensing the violence rolling off him in waves, but he did not see them. He saw only her, and the man who dared to touch her. His fists curled at his sides, his nails biting into his palms.
If she had a boyfriend, if she had chosen someone else, if she thought she could belong to another man, Draco decided then and there what he would do. He would kill him. He would spill blood without hesitation, without regret, without a single ounce of remorse. The thought did not frighten him. It steadied him.
And then, as though some part of her could sense the weight of his stare, Hermione stood. She excused herself with a casual smile and began walking toward the bathrooms, completely oblivious to the chaos she had ignited in him.
His decision was made before his brain had even caught up with the impulse. He followed her, his steps quick and purposeful, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Each beat drove him closer, each breath fanned the flames of the madness curling in his gut. She disappeared around the corner, and he pressed forward, his world narrowing until there was nothing left but the sound of his pulse and the image of her turning toward him in the narrow hallway.
He didn't even hesitate before shoving the door to the women's restroom open with the heel of his boot. The heavy wood slammed against the tiled wall with a crack, making the mirror rattle and drawing startled gasps from the two women still inside. One dropped her lipstick, another muttered something about lunatics, and both scurried out quickly, brushing past him without daring to meet his eyes.
Hermione, however, did not move. She didn't even blink. She was in the middle of lowering herself onto the toilet, her skirt bunched high on her thighs, and she looked up at him as though his sudden intrusion were nothing more than an inconvenience. That calm, unflappable expression of hers only fanned the fire already raging in his chest.
"Took you long enough," she said dryly, her tone flat, her gaze steady.
Draco's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into slits. The nerve of her, sitting there like a queen on her throne, utterly unbothered by his fury.
"What game are you playing?" he demanded, his voice low and venomous, the sound almost a growl.
She tilted her head, one eyebrow arching, her lips curving into the faintest suggestion of a smirk. "Mind games. Obviously."
His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. "You have no idea you're playing with fire," he hissed, his voice dropping darker, rougher. He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the tile, closing the space between them as though the pull of her presence had shackled him.
Her smirk sharpened, eyes glinting with something far too close to amusement. "I want you to burn, too."
For a moment, he saw red. The sheer audacity of her words left his blood surging in his veins, a molten fury that battled with the other, more dangerous need simmering beneath. He wanted to drag her to her feet, to shake that infuriating calm out of her, to force her to feel even half the chaos she created inside him.
His voice came out strained, his teeth gritted together so tightly it hurt. "Finish your business." He forced each word out with brutal control. "We are going home."
Unbothered, she reached for the toilet handle, pressed it down, and rose with an elegance that mocked the situation entirely. She brushed her skirt down and walked past him, deliberately close, her shoulder grazing his chest as if daring him to act. At the sink, she ran her hands under the water, soap sliding between her fingers, every movement slow and deliberate as though she wanted him to watch.
"I'm going home," she said simply, her tone flat and unshaken. She dried her hands carefully on the paper towel, not even glancing at him. "You can go… wherever."
The quiet dismissal was the final straw. His patience, already threadbare, tore apart completely.
Before she had even tossed the towel aside, he moved. His hand shot out, gripping her arm. His fingers pressed firmly into her skin, hard enough to remind her he wasn't asking, but not so tight that it would leave more than a fleeting mark. Not yet.
"I said," he growled, his voice trembling with the effort to keep it steady, "we are going home."
Her lips parted as though she might retort, her eyes sharp with the defiance that made him want her more than air, but she never got the chance. He pulled her close, his grip unyielding, and the familiar tug of apparition swallowed them both.
In the blink of an eye, the grimy bathroom vanished, and they landed in the stillness of his flat, the silence pressing around them like a verdict.
She stumbled when her feet hit the carpet, the sudden jolt of apparition stealing her balance. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug, and she shot him an annoyed look as she steadied herself, her chest rising with the sharp exhale she gave to collect her composure.
"Draco, I don't know what kind of tantrum you're throwing tonight, but I am not in the mood," she said, her tone clipped as she wrenched her arm from his grip. The place where his fingers had been burned faintly, but she refused to rub at the skin, refused to give him that satisfaction.
His eyes darkened at her words. "Tantrum?" he repeated, the word leaving his mouth like venom. He took one deliberate step closer, his entire posture brimming with dangerous energy. "This isn't a tantrum. This is me reclaiming what belongs to me."
Her eyebrow arched with slow precision, her lips quirking with a disdainful calm that infuriated him. "Am I supposed to be impressed by that caveman display? Because if that's your attempt, it's pathetic."
The word snapped something in him. He stalked toward her, every line of his body alive with fury, eyes blazing with a possessiveness that teetered on the edge of madness. "You cannot walk away from me. Not now. Not ever."
"Is that a threat?" she asked, her tone deceptively light, her gaze sharp and unflinching, as though daring him to push further.
His lips curled into something feral. "It is a promise." The words were nearly a whisper, but they struck heavier than a shout, thick with intent.
Hermione sighed, lifting her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose as though he were no more than a sulky child demanding attention. "You're exhausting, Malfoy," she muttered, her voice tired, dismissive, a knife slipped neatly between his ribs.
"And you are infuriating," he snapped, his voice rising. His fists clenched, trembling with the sheer force of holding back. "But that doesn't mean I'll ever let you go."
She tilted her head, her face unreadable, her eyes steady and unafraid. "What do you want, Draco?"
He swallowed hard, his voice raw when it came. "I want you. All of you. And I will have you, no matter what it takes."
Her small smile was the final provocation, infuriating in its smugness, as if she held every string and he was only a puppet dancing on her stage. "Good luck with that," she said softly, her tone dripping with mockery, her amusement shining through as though he were nothing but an amusing spectacle.
The heat surged through his veins, molten, uncontrollable. His vision narrowed on her as he stepped closer, the words falling from his lips like a curse. "Who was that man? Who the hell was he? How dare you let someone else touch you?"
She tilted her head again, as though studying a child's tantrum rather than a man teetering on the edge of violence. Her voice was laced with syrupy mock sweetness, her eyes glittering with cruel amusement. "Oh, darling. You are so naïve and mental they ought to write a book about your delusions. It might even make the bestseller list."
His control shattered completely. His voice broke into a roar, unhinged and violent. "ANSWER ME, BITCH!"
The words echoed through the flat, venom dripping from every syllable. He was shaking now, from fury or need he could not tell, but before he could reach for her, before he could even process the sight of her standing so still, her hand curled into a tight fist.
And then she struck.
Her knuckles collided squarely with his cheekbone, the force sharp and jarring, far heavier than a slap. His head jerked to the side from the impact, the crack of bone against skin echoing in the silence that followed. His mouth opened slightly in shock, a hiss of breath escaping between his teeth as his hand flew to his face.
Hermione stood there with her chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths, her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. She did not look guilty. She did not look shaken. If anything, she looked more alive than he had ever seen her, as though striking him had awakened something in her. A faint smile curved her lips, the kind of smile that carried no warmth, only a quiet promise of defiance.
"Choose a different word," she said, her tone as cold as ice, her face set with an expression that left no room for compromise.
Draco's head tilted slightly, his body recoiling before he even understood why. The sting on his cheek burned where her knuckles had met his skin, and his hand rose instinctively to cradle the mark she had left. For a fleeting second, he felt dazed, almost disbelieving that she had gone so far.
But when he straightened, when his grey eyes found hers again, the fury in them was already tangled with something far more dangerous. Desperation. His jaw tightened, his lips parting as though he needed to fight through the thickness in his throat just to form words. "Answer me… my love," he said, the last two words dragged out of him like a confession he could not keep buried. His voice was quieter than before, but the strain in it, the trembling edge, made the words sound even more violent.
Her lips twitched, not in kindness but in something caught between amusement and disdain. "So much better," she muttered, dismissive, as if she were humoring him.
But she did not give him what he wanted.
The silence scraped at him until he felt he might split open beneath it. His patience was unraveling thread by thread, and he could not stay still. He began pacing the floor, each movement sharp and erratic, his shoulders taut, his mind racing in frantic loops of suspicion. "Who was he?" he demanded, his voice quivering against his will. "I need to know."
Hermione leaned back against the wall, her posture unshaken, as if his rage were nothing but a noise she could tune out at will. Her tone cut through the air like a blade, steady and merciless. "How many girls have you fucked while I wasn't visiting you?"
"Zero," Draco shot back instantly, his voice stripped of hesitation.
"Quite interesting," she said, her arms folding across her chest, her gaze narrowing with cool calculation. "Because I stopped by three days ago, and what I heard was a girl giggling. So naturally, I decided my presence was no longer required."
His eyes widened, disbelief crashing over him so violently it left him almost breathless. "What are you talking about? My mother didn't even visit me, let alone another woman."
She raised one eyebrow, unconvinced, her silence sharper than any accusation.
"I can prove it to you," he blurted, the words spilling out too quickly, too frantically. His fingers fumbled for his wand, nearly dropping it in his haste. "Here, look at my memories. You will see for yourself." His voice cracked with desperation, the offer so raw it almost hurt to hear.
She dismissed him with a wave, her expression flat, unreadable, but cutting in its coldness. "I am not interested in your fabricated lies."
The words carved into him deeper than any blade. His chest hollowed out, his shoulders sinking as though the weight of her distrust had crushed the air from his lungs. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless, stripped of every weapon he had ever relied on. His voice came out broken, uneven. "I am not lying. Please, it is not true. Why can you not believe me? Why can you not… why can you not just love me?"
He took a faltering step toward her, closing the distance in small, trembling movements. His voice dropped low, a whisper almost swallowed by the pounding of his heart. "You are the only person I think about. You are the only one who matters. You are everything."
Her eyes softened then, only a fraction, the briefest shift in her armor, and yet it struck him like a physical blow.
"I do," she said, barely louder than the faintest breath, her voice quiet but unmistakable.
Draco froze, his body going rigid, his lips parting as though he had forgotten how to breathe. His mind scrambled against the impossibility of it, clawing at her words as if he needed to make certain he had not imagined them. "Sorry?" he asked, the disbelief woven into his voice so sharp it almost broke.
"Do not make me say it," she muttered, her cheeks flushed the faintest pink as she looked away. Her gaze dropped to the floor, her defiance dimmed but not extinguished. "I am not saying it."
Draco moved another step closer, so close that the air between them seemed to thin. His voice trembled, the question nearly devouring him as he forced it out. "Is it true?"
Her answer came with a sigh, heavy and reluctant, her tone thick with honesty she did not want to give. "Unfortunately."
The word shattered through him, tearing him open with equal parts ecstasy and agony. He could not speak. He could not breathe. They stood suspended in that moment, the air thick with longing, fury, and the sharp ache of something neither of them dared name aloud. It wrapped around them like smoke, choking and intoxicating all at once, and neither moved to break it.
He reached for her hand, his touch tentative, almost reverent, as though he feared she might shatter beneath the weight of his need. His voice cracked when he spoke her name, barely more than a whisper. "Hermione. Say it. Please."
Her gaze lifted, steady and unflinching, her eyes burning with something caught between affection and irritation. "I will not," she said firmly, her voice a quiet blade.
The words cut, but they did not break him. If anything, they drove him further. His arms closed around her, pulling her against him with a desperate strength that betrayed how terrified he was of losing her, as though she might slip through his fingers if he did not hold her tightly enough. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in like a man starved.
"I will make you say it," he murmured into the strands, his voice a vow, ragged with determination.
She let out a faint, startled sound when he bent and scooped her up into his arms. His grip was strong, steady, but not unkind, and though she could have fought him, she did not. Instead, her head tilted back so she could study his face, her expression touched with wry amusement, though her eyes flickered with something softer beneath it.
"Draco," she murmured, her tone light, though there was no trace of protest.
"Hermione," he replied, the single word low, serious, heavy with all the meaning he could not yet name. He carried her through the flat without pause, the dim light spilling across the walls as he walked with a sense of purpose, each step deliberate, as though he had been waiting for this moment all along. When they reached his bedroom, he stood motionless for a heartbeat, his chest rising and falling unevenly as he looked down at her in his arms.
"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice soft, teasing, but edged with curiosity.
"What I should have done the moment I saw you standing naked in my bathroom," he said, his voice thick, roughened by emotion that no longer had room to hide.
He lowered her to the bed with a care that almost contradicted the storm inside him, then leaned down and captured her lips in a kiss that was nothing close to gentle. It was raw, searing, desperate, the culmination of every moment he had held back, every glance, every thought that had devoured him in silence.
She gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed by him as he deepened the kiss. Her arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, refusing him even the possibility of distance. Her lips answered his, her mouth opening for him with a hunger that matched his own. Their tongues tangled in frantic rhythm, as though they had been starving for years and could finally taste what had always been forbidden.
Her soft sounds broke him open, each moan vibrating against his lips and driving him to the edge of reason. His hands roamed greedily over her body, pressing against the curve of her waist, the line of her ribs, the swell of her breast, and even through the thin fabric of her blouse he could feel the fire of her skin, the heat that made him ache. She arched against him, her body yielding in instinct, her softness molding perfectly against the rigid line of his arousal pressing against her through the barrier of his trousers.
The sound that left her when she felt him there was almost a whimper, sharp and low, and it unravelled him completely. His fingers moved to her blouse, trembling as he worked at the buttons, fighting between the urge to tear the fabric and the need to savor each revelation. He wanted patience, but she had none. With a sudden motion, she shoved his hands away and tugged the blouse over her head in one swift move, her hair tumbling free as she tossed the garment aside.
Her hands were on him then, pushing him back against the mattress. She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her eyes dark with defiance and hunger as she set to his shirt. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons before she grew impatient and dragged the shirt over his head, baring his chest. She pressed her palms against his skin, tracing the hard lines of his body, feeling the shudder that rippled through him at her touch.
He wanted to stop her, to slow her, but she was relentless. Her hands flew to his belt, working it open with a swiftness that made his head spin. In seconds, his trousers and briefs were shoved aside, cast away with careless force. Something clattered to the floor and shattered, a vase perhaps, but neither of them gave it a thought.
"Slow down, love," he murmured, his voice low, husky, almost a plea.
Her mouth curved in a wicked smirk as she leaned down to kiss him again, her hands braced against his chest. "You have kept me waiting long enough," she whispered against his lips.
He let out a broken laugh, one that was swallowed by her kiss, before he seized control again, flipping them so she was beneath him. She gasped, surprised but not displeased, and her soft laugh lit his blood on fire. He paused only to look at her, to drink in the vision she made, her lips swollen from kissing, her cheeks flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
He kissed her hands first, then her wrists, before letting his lips trail higher, each touch worshipful, each press of his mouth meant to mark her as his. He slid her bra from her shoulders with reverent slowness, baring her to him completely, and when the fabric fell forgotten to the floor he took her in with eyes that burned with awe and hunger.
She was perfection, every line, every curve, every breath she took. He wanted to worship her, to claim her, to break her and rebuild her until there was no part of her untouched by him.
His lips closed over her nipple, his tongue swirling before he sucked gently, his free hand kneading the soft flesh of her other breast. She moaned, her head falling back, her fingers tightening in his hair. Her hips lifted to him in instinct, rolling against him, pressing closer, and he nearly lost himself then, lost to the sight, the sound, the feel of her coming apart beneath him.
He released her with a grin, his mouth moving to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, his hand teasing the one he had left behind. Her voice broke, his name spilling from her lips in a desperate, pleading cry.
"Draco," she whimpered, and he smiled against her skin, triumphant and undone all at once.
He moved lower, kissing down her stomach, each press of his lips a brand, a promise, until he reached the edge of her skirt. He looked up at her then, his eyes burning with hunger and devotion so fierce it almost frightened him, his voice nothing more than a growl.
"I will make you say it," he whispered again.
He reached the waistband of her skirt, his fingers steady but hungry, unzipping it in one smooth motion before sliding it down the length of her legs. The fabric pooled on the floor, forgotten. He pressed a lingering kiss to the soft skin of her inner thigh, his lips hot against the delicate flesh, then lifted his gaze. Their eyes met, and he held it, unblinking, as his fingers slipped into the waistband of her knickers.
Slowly, deliberately, he peeled them down, every inch a torment for them both. She squirmed under his stare, her breath catching as the air touched her bared skin. He smirked, savoring her impatience, before leaning down and sealing his mouth against her folds in an open-mouthed kiss that drew a startled gasp from her lips.
Her breath hitched, her body tensing, her legs trembling as the first shock of sensation coursed through her. He did not tease her with hesitation. His tongue traced her slit in one long, claiming stroke, gathering her arousal until he reached the tight bundle of nerves at the peak of her sex. He drew it into his mouth, sucking hard, his hands tightening on her thighs to keep her from writhing away. Her hips jerked helplessly, but he held her firm, forcing her to surrender to the rhythm he gave her.
"Draco!" she cried, her voice high and broken, as though the pleasure were already too much.
The sound was everything he had ever wanted. It shattered his restraint, urged him to push her further, and he obeyed. He slid a finger inside her, the slick heat drawing a low groan from his throat. He pumped slowly at first, curling upward until he felt her walls flutter, then pushed a second finger in alongside the first. His pace grew sharper, deeper, each thrust perfectly timed to the flicks of his tongue as he circled and sucked her clit with merciless precision.
Her hands flew to his hair, gripping tight, pulling hard enough to sting, but he only pressed closer, letting the pain drive him deeper into the storm of her body. She moaned and whimpered, her thighs trembling around his face, her voice unraveling into desperate, incoherent pleas.
"Do not stop," she begged, her voice wrecked, her tone raw with need.
He had no intention of stopping. He crooked his fingers, searching until he found the spot that made her cry out, and once he did, he devoted himself to it entirely. His tongue worked her clit in relentless strokes, his fingers pumping and curling until her body was quaking, her voice breaking, her cries echoing through the room.
When her orgasm hit, it ripped through her like a storm. She screamed his name, her back arching off the bed, her body convulsing with the force of it. He did not relent, did not give her a moment to come down. He kept licking, kept sucking, kept his fingers buried deep until she collapsed into the sheets, trembling, whimpering, every ounce of strength stolen from her.
Only then did he pull back, his lips and chin glistening with her release, his chest heaving as he looked up at her. She was flushed, her hair in wild disarray, her eyes glazed and wet, her body still trembling with aftershocks. She looked undone, wrecked, beautiful beyond reason.
"Please," she whispered, her voice thin and broken. "Please put it in."
The plea shot straight through him, and for a moment he simply stared at her, drinking in the sight of her so desperate for him. His lips curved into a slow, sensual smile, the kind that promised everything and demanded everything in return. He slid his thumb across her inner thigh, up to her hip, savoring the feel of her still-quaking body beneath his hand.
"You will," he said softly, his voice a husky murmur, "but first, I want to feel your mouth on me."
Her eyes widened, dark with anticipation, and she nodded without hesitation. She pushed herself up, her body still weak from climax but driven by want. She knelt in front of him, her hands trembling slightly as they wrapped around him.
He groaned the moment she touched him, the sound rough and low in his throat. His cock was heavy in her hand, hard and straining, the sight alone enough to make her swallow in both awe and hunger. He was thick, perfectly shaped, veins pulsing along the length, the tip flushed dark and already slick.
She stroked him slowly at first, her thumb circling the head, smearing the bead of precum across it before leaning in. She kissed him there, soft at first, almost teasing, then parted her lips and let her tongue swirl around the sensitive tip. His head fell back, a ragged sound escaping him, his hand shooting to her hair.
"Good girl," he groaned, his voice wrecked as she took him into her mouth, her lips sliding down the length of him.
His hands instantly gathered her hair, his fingers tangling deep as he guided her movements, his hips twitching as she took him deeper into her mouth. Her lips stretched around him, her throat swallowing against the intrusion, and the sight of her on her knees, so willingly giving herself to him, nearly undid him.
"Enough, baby," he rasped, the words breaking from him in a voice thick with need. He tugged her back, his cock glistening as her lips slipped free with a wet sound. His breath shuddered out of him. "When I come, it will be inside your cunt."
Her wide eyes lifted, shimmering with innocence and fire all at once, her lips swollen from the work of pleasing him. He bent closer, his thumb brushing over her cheek, his voice softer now, gentling in a way he rarely allowed. "I promise I will be careful. Are you ready for us to make love?"
She bit her lip, her chest rising and falling in quick bursts, and then she laughed, breathless and sharp. "Stop talking, Draco. Put it in already."
A grin ghosted across his mouth, half feral, half tender. "Yes, ma'am," he whispered, before scooping her back against the mattress. He climbed over her, taking her leg and lifting it over his shoulder, his body fitting itself against hers with a familiarity he had always dreamed of but never thought he would touch.
He pushed forward slowly, carefully, guiding himself into her inch by inch. The stretch was tight, almost unbearable, and her mouth parted in a soundless cry as her eyes flew open wide. Her hands gripped at the sheets, twisting them in her fists as though they might anchor her against the flood of sensation.
"Are you alright, doll?" he murmured, his lips brushing her temple, his voice strained with concern even as his body trembled with restraint.
"Yes," she gasped, her nails clawing lightly against his shoulders. "Yes, just… it has been a long time."
His chest tightened at that, something fierce and protective blooming in him. He kissed the corner of her mouth, slow and reverent, even as his hips pressed deeper. "I know," he said quietly. His thumb drifted between them, stroking over her clit in slow, patient circles. "I will make it feel good. I swear to you."
Her breath hitched as her body began to yield, the resistance giving way to a wet, aching heat that wrapped around him inch by inch. She pulled him closer with her legs, forcing him deeper, until he was nearly buried to the hilt. He groaned against her throat, the pressure almost unbearable, his entire body shuddering as he stilled inside her.
"That," he growled softly, kissing the line of her jaw, "that is where I am going to lose myself in you."
"Then move," she whispered, her voice shaky but laced with command. "Please, Draco. Move."
He obeyed at once. He began slowly, rocking into her with long, deliberate thrusts that drew soft moans from her lips, their bodies sliding together with wet, obscene sounds. Her nails raked down his back, urging him faster, harder, until he could no longer keep the pace measured.
She gasped his name like a prayer, the sound of it spurring him deeper. He drove into her with growing force, his body slamming against hers until the bed shook beneath them. The air was thick with the sounds of their union, moans and gasps and the slap of skin against skin echoing in the dim room.
"Faster," she cried out, her voice breaking, her eyes rolling back as the tension wound tight in her body. "Harder, Draco. Please."
Her pleas unraveled what little control he had left. His thrusts grew punishing, desperate, every movement a declaration of his obsession, his need, his claim. She was shaking beneath him, her cries rising higher, her body clenching around him in violent spasms.
"Oh—oh, Merlin," she gasped, the words spilling brokenly from her lips. Her thighs locked around him, her cunt pulsing, squeezing him as she shattered beneath him. Her scream filled the room, raw and unrestrained, and the sight of her losing herself around him sent him over the edge.
He buried himself deep, his body tensing as the climax tore through him. A guttural groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, his release hot and unrelenting, each pulse matched by the way she clenched tighter around him as though her body was determined to keep him there.
He kissed her through it, pressing his mouth to hers, swallowing her cries, giving her every broken sound of his own. Their bodies shook against each other, trembling with the force of their release, until finally they collapsed into the sheets, tangled and breathless.
As their breathing began to steady, Draco leaned over her and pressed the gentlest of kisses to her lips, so soft it felt almost unreal after the way he had just torn her apart. His hand reached for a towel from the bathroom, and when he came back, he cleaned her with a tenderness that made her throat tighten. She lay still, her skin flushed, her hair wild across the pillow, and let him fuss over her as though she were something fragile.
When he was finished, he slid into the bed beside her and pulled her into his chest. Her head rested against the solid rise and fall of him, the steady beat of his heart grounding her in the silence that followed. His fingers stroked slowly down her spine, not demanding, not pushing, only touching because he could not stop himself.
Hermione tilted her face slightly, her voice rough but steady. "Is this how it feels every time for you?"
Draco lowered his head so that his lips brushed the crown of her hair. "We are not just fucking, Granger. We are making love." His tone was quiet, almost reverent. "And yes. It feels like this every time."
Her lips curved against his chest, a sharp smile tugging at her mouth. "Making love? That was brutal. Amazing, yes. But brutal."
He laughed under his breath, the sound shaky with exhaustion and something deeper. "You do not understand, do you? You are perfect. Every part of you. The best thing I have ever touched in my life."
Her heart gave a startled flutter, so quick and so dangerous she had to close her eyes to steady herself. Compliments from him had always been tangled with possession, but this one carried something else, something bare and unguarded. She swallowed hard, unwilling to admit how much it mattered.
He kissed her again, slower this time, his tongue teasing hers, as though even now he could not get enough. The night stretched long around them, and when their bodies grew restless again, they reached for each other. The second time was different, slower in some ways and rougher in others, a mix of reverence and raw hunger that left them both shaking. He traced her collarbone with his mouth before pinning her wrists above her head, his thrusts deep and relentless, every movement claiming her as his.
She met him every step of the way, gasping, laughing breathlessly when he groaned against her throat, digging her nails into his back when he tried to slow the rhythm. It was a dance neither of them wanted to end, brutal and tender in the same breath, a contradiction that felt like the truest expression of what they were becoming.
Later, when they collapsed against each other once more, their skin slick, their bodies aching and spent, Hermione lay tangled in his arms, staring into the dark ceiling. She did not say the words he craved, and he did not press her for them again, though the question lingered heavy in his chest.
All she whispered was, "This changes nothing, you know."
Draco only held her tighter, his lips brushing her temple. "It changes everything."
She did not argue, not this time.